by Clara Benson
FIFTEEN
The next day the prosecution continued in its efforts to demonstrate that Davie Marchmont must have been killed after midnight on the eleventh of November, and produced Mrs. Theodora Trumpington, who gave her address as Flat 10, 23 Mount Street, Mayfair. She was a stout, elderly woman with a red face, a tweed suit and a quantity of wiry grey hair which showed signs of wanting to escape from its moorings, for every so often another lock would work its way out from under her hat and stand to attention. She glared round at the court and then peered suspiciously at the Attorney-General as though he were about to ask her for money. Sir Benjamin produced his most winning smile.
‘Mrs. Trumpington, you live in the flat next door to the prisoner, I believe,’ he began.
‘You know very well I do,’ she said. ‘I told them so before I got here.’
‘Indeed you did,’ he said smoothly, ‘and I know you will not mind repeating it for the benefit of the court. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Marchmont at all?’
‘I’ve seen her, of course,’ said Mrs. Trumpington. ‘Very polite young woman. Always says good morning and smiles. Doesn’t wipe her feet on the mat before she goes in, though. I tell her that dirty shoes will ruin her parquet but she never listens, and now look what’s happened.’
Here she turned to Angela and wagged a finger.
‘I told you,’ she said, then turned back to Sir Benjamin with the look of someone who had been proved right in her sad predictions.
Ignoring the implication that Angela’s muddy shoes had led directly to the death of Angela’s husband and her trial for his murder, Sir Benjamin went on:
‘You were at home on the night of Saturday the tenth of November last?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Where else should I have been?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sir Benjamin politely. ‘Now, I should like you to think back to that night if you can. Do you remember hearing any noise at all? Can you hear people entering and leaving the building, for example?’
‘Not as a rule,’ said Mrs. Trumpington. ‘The walls are rather thick. It’s a solidly-built place. That’s why I like it. I can’t bear it when the walls are so thin that one can hear one’s neighbours chewing their food next door.’
‘Then you heard no-one arrive that night?’
‘No.’
‘Was there any other noise?’
‘Yes, there most certainly was,’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘Banging and crashing and whizzing all night, they were.’
‘Who were?’
‘Why, the fireworks, of course. They ought to be banned. They’re nothing but a nuisance.’
‘Ah, you say that people were letting off fireworks outside,’ said Sir Benjamin. ‘Yes, it is a frequent occurrence at that time of year. When you say “all night,” do you mean that there were many such explosions that night?’
‘Oh, dozens,’ said Mrs. Trumpington.
‘Are you quite sure of that?’ said Sir Benjamin gently. ‘Dozens would indeed be many, and I shouldn’t blame you at all for being upset at the disturbance if that were the case. But I should like you to think carefully about the number, if you would. This is a court proceeding and a woman’s life is at stake, and I am sure you would not wish to see justice badly served.’
‘Of course not,’ said Mrs. Trumpington gruffly. She shuffled slightly and half-glanced at Angela, and another lock of hair fell out of her hat. ‘Well, then, perhaps not dozens,’ she admitted.
‘A dozen?’
She thought.
‘I should say six or seven,’ she said at last.
‘And can you remember at what time you heard them?’
‘Mostly after I was in bed,’ she said. ‘That’s what made me so cross. I sleep badly in the early part of the night, as a rule, and I require absolute quiet to drop off.’
‘At what time did you go to bed?’
‘Somewhere between half past ten and a quarter to eleven,’ she said. ‘I go at about the same time every night.’
‘But you could not get to sleep because of the bangs? Can you remember at what time you heard the first one?’
‘At twenty to one,’ she said.
‘Can you be sure of that?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’d just started to drift off when it happened, and I turned my lamp on and looked at the clock.’
‘And did the other noises follow immediately afterwards?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘They came all together a few minutes later.’
‘And you were in no doubt that they were fireworks, and not gunshots?’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Guns don’t go “whee—pfft!”’
Her imitation was an enthusiastic one, and the spectators giggled. Sir Benjamin smiled appreciatively.
‘Did they all make that noise?’ he said. ‘Even the first one?’
‘Well, no—as I said, the first one went bang,’ said Mrs. Trumpington.
‘Then presumably that one might have been a gunshot.’
‘I suppose it might,’ she said, after a moment’s thought. ‘Although it didn’t strike me as such at the time.’
This was quite sufficient for Sir Benjamin’s purposes, however, and he invited the defence to cross-examine. Mr. Travers stood.
‘You said that the noises you heard came mostly after you were in bed,’ he said. ‘Does that mean you heard others before you went to bed?’
‘Only one,’ said Mrs. Trumpington. ‘That was the loudest one of all, but at least it didn’t come when I was trying to get to sleep.’
‘What time was it?’
‘Just after ten, I should say.’
‘And it was very loud?’
‘Oh, tremendously,’ she said.
‘And was that one a bang or a—er—whizz?’ said Mr. Travers.
‘It was a bang. Most definitely a bang,’ she said firmly. ‘I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard it. In fact, for a second I thought someone had let the thing off inside the building, and I was worried about fire.’
‘Might that one have been a gunshot, do you suppose?’ said Mr. Travers.
She agreed that it might. There were no further questions, and she was allowed to stand down, which she did, with one last glare round at the court.
Having dealt with the matter of the alibi to its satisfaction, the prosecution then turned its attention to the question of motive. Inspector Scott was recalled once again, and was asked whether Mrs. Marchmont had had an explanation as to why her husband had come all the way from New York to find her, if they were separated. Here the spectators sat up and prepared to pay close attention, for this looked like being the most interesting part of the trial.
Inspector Scott recounted what Angela had told him about her husband’s request for money. There then followed the evidence of the cheque-book, and there was a gasp from the public gallery as it was revealed that Mrs. Marchmont had written her husband a cheque for five hundred pounds with apparently no more concern than if she were paying the milkman. This was a sum indeed, and the public spectators now eyed the prisoner with respect and envy, and not a little suspicion. They knew, of course, that those in high society were quite accustomed to bandy about large amounts of cash and think nothing of it, but this was something quite different. Not the least odd was the fact that she had given him the money, rather than the other way about. What business had a husband to be sponging on his wife when he ought to be supporting her instead? Anyone looking at the public gallery at that moment might have observed a number of heads wagging as the spectators jumped to various conclusions—one of which was that the dead man must have had some kind of hold over his wife.
‘Did she say why she gave him such an enormous sum?’ inquired Sir Benjamin, who had himself only the day before made out a cheque for a similar amount of money to a young lady whom he maintained discreetly in a flat in Chelsea, and who relied upon him to defray her day-to-day expenses.
‘She said she gave him it because he asked for it
, and he was still her husband, after all,’ replied Scott.
There was some muttering among the women on the public bench about this, much of which was to the effect that had it been their husband coming to beg that sort of money, he might have whistled for it.
Inspector Scott made way then for a man from the bank, who stated that Mr. David Marchmont had come into his bank on Thursday the eighth of November and presented a cheque, drawn on the account of Mrs. Angela Marchmont, in return for which—after the usual formalities—he had received a cash sum of five hundred pounds.
‘Was Mrs. Marchmont easily able to afford such a sum?’ said Sir Benjamin.
‘I shouldn’t say easily,’ said the man from the bank. ‘Mrs. Marchmont’s financial position is an extremely healthy one, but much of her wealth is tied up in stocks, bonds and other securities. The five hundred pounds drawn left her with less than a hundred pounds in her current account.’
‘But presumably she could have sold some of her investments if she had needed any more money?’
‘That is correct,’ said the man from the bank.
‘Thank you,’ said Sir Benjamin.
Alfred Pearson was now recalled, and repeated what he had already told Freddy about Davie Marchmont’s behaviour at Burkett’s on the night of his death; how he had carelessly thrown down large sums of money at cards, and how he had claimed that there was plenty more where that came from.
‘What did you understand him to mean by that?’ asked Sir Benjamin.
‘Why, I don’t know,’ said Pearson. ‘I suppose I thought he had been put on to a good thing by someone—perhaps a horse, or an investment.’
‘He said nothing about asking his wife for more money?’
‘No. As a matter of fact, I had no idea he was married until I heard he was dead.’
Mr. Pearson was thanked and allowed to go, and the indefatigable Inspector Scott called once more.
‘I understand the prisoner and the deceased were married in New York and lived there together for some years,’ said Sir Benjamin. ‘Did you, as part of your investigation, communicate with the police in that city?’
‘Yes, we did,’ said Scott.
‘And what did they tell you?’
Inspector Scott cleared his throat.
‘Since Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont had separated shortly before Mrs. Marchmont returned to England, we wished to find out whether there was known to have been any trouble between the deceased and his wife while they were living together in New York,’ he said. ‘They informed us that they had, on one occasion in early nineteen twenty-six, been called out to an address on Fifth Avenue, as there were reports of an altercation. When the police arrived at the apartment, they spoke to Mr. David Marchmont, who claimed that it had all been a misunderstanding. Mrs. Angela Marchmont was also present, and refused to say anything, and so the police went away. The next day, they received a call from the mother of Mr. Marchmont, accusing Mrs. Marchmont of having threatened her husband with a gun and demanding that they arrest her, but since neither of the people directly involved wished to press charges, no further action was taken.’
‘It was in nineteen twenty-six that the Marchmonts separated and Mrs. Marchmont returned to England, yes?’ said Sir Benjamin.
‘So I understand,’ said Inspector Scott.
‘And she had not seen him since then?’
‘That is what she said,’ replied Scott.
The inspector was excused and the court adjourned for lunch. Outside the building, Freddy and Kathie were joined by Inspector Alec Jameson, who had managed to take a little time from his duties to run over from Scotland Yard and find out how things were getting along. His wife threw herself into his arms and shook her head at his inquiring expression.
‘It’s not going well, I take it,’ he said.
‘Not exactly,’ said Freddy. ‘Of course, it’s the prosecution’s day, so things are bound to look bad, but I must say they’re doing the devil of a job in building up a case against her. It doesn’t help that she apparently used to amuse herself by waving a gun at him once in a while when they lived in New York.’
‘She didn’t!’ said Jameson.
‘We don’t know that,’ said Kathie. ‘No charges were ever brought. It might not be true.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Freddy. ‘From what I’ve heard of this chap he sounds as though he was something of a blister. I should imagine even you’d have wanted to wave a gun at him, Kathie—especially if you’d been forced to live with the fellow for years while he took all your money and paraded his women before you.’
‘Oh, he was one of those types, was he?’ said Jameson. ‘Poor Angela.’
‘Yes,’ said Freddy. ‘And the worst of it is, none of that has come out in court yet. When it does it won’t make the deceased look good, but old Ben won’t care about that. His concern is to give Angela a motive, and I have the feeling he’s planning to give her both barrels this afternoon.’
‘Why do you say that?’ said Jameson.
‘Because I understand they’ve shipped over the dead man’s mother, who’s simply dying to have her say,’ said Freddy. ‘And I don’t think she’s going to be recommending Angela for a medal.’
SIXTEEN
Della Marchmont Delaney was a woman whom it was unwise to cross. For many years her acid tongue and bare-faced put-downs had made her the scourge of New York society, and nobody would have supposed from the grand house she lived in, the evening parties she attended and the appearances she maintained, that she had barely two pennies to rub together. Twice a widow, she had lived for her only son and child, who was the apple of her eye and could do no wrong even while doing wrong. With such a mother it was a brave woman indeed who would dare marry him, and Della had disliked and mistrusted Angela from the start, for she did not understand this self-possessed young Englishwoman who had come to America and worked her way into the confidence of Della’s brother-in-law, Carey Bernstein, so easily. What business did a woman have in running a company? Especially when there was a perfectly good nephew in the form of Davie to be groomed in the management of the Bernstein empire. It did not occur to Della that Bernstein had the measure of his nephew and had no intention of allowing Davie anywhere near his business if he could help it, for he could see perfectly well what sort of fist Davie would make of it. The cool-headed Angela had just the right sort of brain for the job, on the other hand, even if she was a woman, and she very soon proved herself to be quite up to the responsibility of running Bernstein & Associates. Della, of course, did not see it in this light, and had the worst sort of suspicions about how Angela had managed to attain such a position of trust—suspicions which were completely unfounded, but nonetheless deeply rooted.
When Bernstein died suddenly, leaving a half share in Bernstein & Associates to Angela (at least he had had the decency to leave something to his only nephew), Della was exceedingly put out—and even more so when her darling son announced only a few months later that he and Angela were going to get married. Della did her best to dissuade him, but Davie had always been one to do as he pleased, and he merely laughed at her. So the wedding went ahead, and Della found some comfort in the thought that at least Angela brought with her the other half of the company which ought rightfully to belong wholly to her son. After their marriage, Angela would, of course, step down and leave the running of the firm to Davie, while she went about providing Della with some grandchildren to play off against one another. But months and years went by and nothing of the sort happened. Angela kept her position at the head of Bernstein & Associates and Davie continued his life of idleness, and no children appeared. Della grew increasingly impatient at this state of affairs and one day decided to confront her son, who replied carelessly that there would be no children, and that he had no intention of forcing Angela to give up work, for he was quite happy as he was. Della seethed with rage at this, but did not argue with Davie, for she knew it would be useless. Still, she observed them as closely as she could, for sh
e hoped that one day her son might be persuaded to give the marriage up. She knew he had other women, and that he appeared to be living in a state of ease and dissipation, but supposed that Angela was either unaware of the fact or did not care, for she had become increasingly withdrawn and silent, and was seen less and less in the company of her husband. Naturally, Della assumed that Angela’s apparent coldness was the reason for Davie’s association with other women, and had no idea that it was in fact caused by it, or that Angela was by now very unhappy.
So things continued until one day Davie happened to mention, quite in passing, that Angela had bought out his share of Bernstein & Associates some years earlier, and that he was entirely reliant upon her for money. Della was horrified and urged him to divorce Angela, for it was by now clear that they were no longer living as man and wife, and the thought of her son having to beg from that woman was more than she could bear. Even poverty would be better than this, she said. What if Angela decided to stop supporting him? But Davie laughed and said he was quite happy as he was, for he could live as he chose and was assured of money whenever he wanted it. His wife would never say no—not if she wanted to keep her reputation, at any rate, for he knew things about her which she would never wish to be made public. And then he told Della all about Angela and why she would never divorce him, however much she wanted to, and why he would never have to work again.
It was shortly after this that the police were called to the Marchmonts’ apartment after it was reported that Mrs. Marchmont had threatened her husband with a gun. A week later Angela packed her bags and returned to England, and they had not seen her again. Two and a half years after that, Davie had gone to London after his wife, never to return. Della had always known that nothing good would come of his marriage to the upstart Englishwoman, and now she had been proved right. She had lost her darling, and today she wanted revenge.
As the name ‘Della Marchmont Delaney’ was pronounced, the court sat up, abuzz with interest, for it seemed as though the real excitement were about to begin. Mrs. Delaney made her way with great deliberation to the witness-box and gave her oath in a clipped American accent, and as she did so all those present feasted their eyes upon her. Although she must have been approaching seventy, she was evidently not one to lie down and allow the years to trample over her, for every inch of her spoke of a relentless battle against the forces of time. Her hair was an exquisite shade of gold, and gleamed defiantly under the lights. Her hooded eyes were heavy with black, her cheeks a delicate pink. Her attire was splendid, fashionable and fitted to a nicety. Only her hands betrayed her real age, for they were clawed, grasping and bony, but she did her best to hide them under bracelets and rings that jangled and clinked as she moved.